


Letters to Alfie

by Hollow_Whisperings



Series: The fem!Bruce Verse [8]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Awkward Bruce Wayne, Awkwardness, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating, Codenames, Codes & Ciphers, Epistolary, Gen, Gotham City - Freeform, Gotham City is Terrible, Letters, Naive Bruce Wayne, Noodle Incidents, Pre-Batman Bruce Wayne, Punching Doesn't Solve Everything, Rich Bruce Wayne, Secret Identity, Secret Messages, Survival Training, Travelogue, White Privilege, World Travel, Writing Exercise, Young Bruce Wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22614151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hollow_Whisperings/pseuds/Hollow_Whisperings
Summary: Bruce travels the world, training for a purpose as yet unknown to the fledgling adult, and, between identities and countries, attempts to reassure the only one The Last Wayne has never had to lie to: Alfred Pennyworth, lone custodian of Wayne Manor, and Bruce's greatest mentor.A series of one-sided letters to "A" from a globe-trotting teen desperately seeking purpose... but finding conspiracies, aliens, and an inexplicable amount of non-Japanese ninja instead.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne
Series: The fem!Bruce Verse [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/367985
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Bruce's pronouns are... fluid, particularly during THIS "self-discovery/secret training montage" stage of life. The Bruce of my existing Batman fics is a gender-neutral female who presents Batman as a he/him capitalizing on criminal paranoia via acting as a sexless personification of Gotham's Rage.
> 
> ...but, tentatively placed in The Nineties-ish, Bruce has neither the experience nor the patience to analyse why she is so quick to use gender as a mask &, if questioned, calls herself "butch".
> 
> (of course, while travelling, Bruce opts to take on male false identities to draw less attention than a white american already does smack-dab in Tibet/Ethiopia/Brazil/Palestine/Japan, etc)

A,

By now you've likely concluded that I am not presently occupied with economics and business study at Oxford.

More correctly, you never believed I had intended attending at all but, rather, desired a convenient alibi for the wealthy, reckless presumptive heir I must appear to be.

If it gives you any reassurance, I have... negotiated, with a discrete professor, the illusion of a long-term masters study via "correspondence" when, truly, I completed several course loads within the first semester (by virtue of beginning university education when feigning traditional scholarship at Gotham Academy) and would draw too much suspicion were I to actually receive recognition on the subjects.

...that is, to say, while I am "discovering myself" via "travels abroad", my travels have featured little alcohol, no wanton trysts, but (technically) a great deal of "extreme sport".

One of my earliest educational highlights, before "flunking out" of Oxford, was the great humbling of my believed martial skill: a black belt, it turns out, earned via rote exertions in a controlled setting among opponents following the same ruleset, is no indicator of battle prowess.

This lesson was delivered to me through several pub brawls, a brief appearance on the West End, a dockside illegal fighting rink, and several turns with an all-female roller derby team.

My stagenames, incidentally, were "Posh Git", "Disgruntled Peasant #2", "Fist-wife", and "The Yankee Prowler".

Not quite of caliber to your Royal Shakespeare Company days but I do believe I proved a "dab hand" at stage makeup, particularly of the bruise-concealing nature.

I cannot, for your safety and mine, extend a returning address for this letter (which, I hope, finds you in good health and better ease of mind) but I will allude to my present climate agreeing with me rather unexpectedly and that at least two of the languages I begged tutorship of you have proved highly useful.

On an unrelated note, I am now completely in agreement with you with respect to a certain beast of burden we had previously disagreed on: my willful ignorance was swiftly and soundly squashed. I had been warned and not heeding your recollections is not an error I intend to repeat.

You have my remorse, my well wishes, and my-

Give the Good Doctor my regards. Preferably in person. I... dislike picturing boarded off wards and silent hallways with only you for company. You have put aside more than reasonably expected of any indiviual's time on your erstwhile charge: I hear the beaches of Brighton are agreeable. Particularly so by estimated reception of this letter. The courier came highly recommended for their prompt deliveries.

Respectfully,  
B.


	2. Bruce - aged 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred, missing his wayward ward, busies himself with packing childhood clutter into protected storage until the young master deigns to return.
> 
> He finds one: folded away into the pages of a filled school book and addressed years earlier. Alfred had long suspected Bruce had used a field trip that year as cover for one of her early escapades but never quite knew what, exactly, Bruce had gotten away with... until now.

Alfie,

I couldn't take being holed up with Gotham Academy's schoolyard politicking, not for an entire weekend and not for the sad pretense of "urban living", camped as we were in a townhouse, of all things: there is too much posturing, too much fawning and too little reality. I feigned a snoring problem to gain a room far from everyone else and promptly went out the window. 

Onto the fire escape.

Into the truth of Gotham.

When did Gotham turn so bleak? 

The headlines go from crying foul on the rise of mob activity to feigning everything's "fine" and saying the police are "handling it"; it took me two blocks and a turn to see how badly entrenched the Crime Families are in even the most gentrified part of the city.

The police aren't "handling it", Alfie: there was Gotham's "Elite", in their fur shawls and bejewelled wristwatches, blatantly disregarding that, walking among them, were armed gangsters whose faces flashed on the police bulletins flying overhead. They were laughing, Alfred.

I know why you never let me out of sight when we're in the streets. You say it's expected, of a butler, of you to be at my beck and call but you forget that I know you, Alfie. You did Shakespeare for years but no one stands close enough to see your neck tensing when you're on a stage: you're always on edge, scanning for threats, keeping yourself between me and Gotham.

When we're in Gotham, you look like you're standing in the middle of enemy territory; seeing Old Money "philanthropists" turning a blind eye to the returned servicemen tucked just out of sight of a Tiffany's display window, shaken out by common thugs for the fun of it...

I had to see this myself. Out from the sheltered daylight, without the pomp and pageantry of the Royce and your three-piece "uniform". I had to know what Gotham was really, truly like.

It's horrible, Alfie.

It didn't take me long to realise that, for all that I'd ditched my Academy uniform and endeavored to "dress down", I stuck like a jammed toe. It wasn't even my age, truly - I can pass for older and, alarmingly, I didn't look too much younger than some of the giggling "armcandy" walking on the arms of gangsters and corporate bigwigs or their shadowed-eye counterparts, smoking to fight the chill from guarding their "spots" whilst baring far more skin than safe in a Gotham winter.

I had to barter my way into passing muster: tailored blazer for soda-stained sweatshirt; neatly pressed blouse for washed-out flannel; cashmere toque for battered Gotham City Knights cap; polished mary-janes for scuffed, too-big sneakers, stuffed to fit with pretzel bags. There was a girl, younger than I with eyes two decades older, who cried when I shrugged my woolen pinafore out to her. She insisted on giving me stretched out overalls, and a pack of cigarettes besides.

(I stowed them back into her things while her back was turned: I dislike niccotine but I can't deny that the sticks help, a little, in keeping a person warm and alert if they're working nightshifts in alleyways)

Happily, I was able to hold on to the mittens Leslie made for me last Christmas: the loosely stitched fingers fell open, making me fit right in at the can fires. I felt badly for how ignorant I was in my "daring" for this "adventure": the itchy, stiff stockings I so disliked made me the envy of the skittish nocturnal population.

I traded them for worn-thin bundle socks and Stories.

I didn't talk - you've mentioned how many Violas failed to pass muster because they tried for "low" and I'd venture that my schoolgirl pronunciations would slip through any attempt at the hushed conversations - but I wasn't there to talk. I wanted to listen.

I won't detail anything shared by the fires but, if I weren't... me, I would likely have cried uselessly at how resigned everyone was to daily harassment, getting chased out of from storefronts, sleeping in shifts to keep posession of one's blankets. I hadn't brought any food with me, stupidly, yet my stockings (and the forgotten school scarf I'd left on) earned me enough goodwill to share a bag of sliced bread. I only pretended to eat: I was sick to my stomach at how close this troupe of teenage women were to the luxury of the Academy's Townhouse not two blocks over.

I ran the math, before the trip, thinking how clever I was to use Missing Persons statistics as a dictate on what to wear, how to act, who to be. The data is wrong. I realised it as soon as I saw my first stoop-porch: police walked right past cardboard signs (worse, they'd chase people out into the cold for "dirtying up the street"). Undoubtedly, what little data was filed correctly to be used in my spreadsheets failed to account for the countless cases where no one listened at pleas for lost sisters or there was no one to note someone was missing in the first place.

I don't have an adequate sample size of all those people lost between reports: I'd thought I'd dressed perfectly for my scouting; turns out I'd failed to account for the blatant disinterest on gathering data on non-caucasian casualties of Gotham's crime-ruled city order.

I need to rethink my whole approach, Alfie. I thought I could "save" Gotham from ever letting what happened to me ever happen again: what happened to me was random "luck", an outlier even, compared to parents taken through slower means and children who felt safer for having lost the ones who birthed them. I can't just... light every dark alley, stall gun lobbyists or halt them outright, or fight every person who thinks to use violence to ease their way.

I don't know how I can really, truly make a difference, Alfie.

I can try and keep jobs locally - push against The Board moving factory jobs out of state or workers into redundancy because of increased automation... why not keep loyal employees on and simply train them to fix, improve, monitor the machines taking their monotonous former roles? Sure, not everyone would adjust to working machinery instead of using it but... the workers already know how everything works! I'm certain that re-training can be argued as more profitable, long-term, with long-term employees utilised for their experience...

I can make jobs. I can fund Leslie's Clinic. I can raise money for charity. What can I do about the complete takeover of civil office by the warring gangs? How can I keep Gotham safe when it seems to want itself ripped apart?

It makes me... I want to kick, and scream, and tell the police, the politicians, the crime bosses... look! Look at what you're doing! What you've done! Don't you care?

I, I don't know what to do with all this... helplessness. Everything feels enormous. All I really did, tonight, was prove myself a fool and use the warmth of my cast-offs to falsely endear myself to people, Gothamites, whose ways of life I can barely comprehend and yet am, by wealth alone, undoubtedly failing in my responsibilities to.

Must I try at industrialized feudalism? Acting the mighty lord pitying her neighbors and obnoxiously boasting my relative charitableness to? It's what Waynes have always done, since buying their way into Gotham's foundations. Noblese oblige? Money means nothing when nigh everyone is set to rob each other at the smallest slight.

You won't read this unless I've botched things up so badly, going out again tonight, to know miss me, but I'm being... reckless tonight: I want to smuggle necessities to the girls I met last night. That means, however, that I need to disguise myself as some dolled thing, foolish enough to carry cash at night, then cart about, in disguise (I doubt any of the street dwellers would hesitate to take what they needed from me by force if I go in, hauling about obviously bought goods, and playing at Santa), with only as much as I can carry.

I think tampons, deodorant, toilet paper, fruit, and socks are what the girls seemed to want most. Not entirely sure how the logistics will work. I can't exactly bring them all brand new winter coats either: they'll get attacked for them immediately. Discretion seems key. I should talk, more, to Leslie. I owe her so many apologies for how frustrating I must have been, how patronizing I must have come across, every time I thought I was "helping" at her clinic.

When I've bought, smuggled, and avoided questions until I need to get back to the Townhouse without being missed, I hope I'll still have enough time to help The Dog.

I almost tripped over him, rushing back to make it for morning roll call, last night. He's part German Shepard, I think, but he's skittish. He was shivering and scared but he wouldn't - couldn't? - growl. He just whimpered and drew in on himself. I almost got caught, going back out right after getting in, because the serving tray I'd stuffed into my shirt and waistband (obviously it would have been stupid to fill the tray up then expect it to stay full by the time I'd climbed down) clanged against the ladder. Luckily, the noise didn't scare him too badly that he ran. I set up the tray, out back where The Dog could rest undisturbed, and topped it with tap water.

If I have time, tonight, I'll see if I can neaten him enough to convince my classmates to bring him up. He was gentle, when I got close, even with how scared he was. If I convince him to come with me, I think I'll name him "Ace". 

Hopefully you'll be too occupied with my bringing a stray home to question why all my clothes you packed have gone missing.

If you do read this, Alfie, it means I made a mistake while sneaking out tonight. I don't know where I'd end up if things go wrong so, even though I'll have barely moved from where my class is set for the weekend, I can't give you a clear location. I doubt any of the girls would still be around to question if anything happens, so they're a bust too. 

I suppose Ace could help find me? If something does keep me from getting back in time to pretend I've been in my room all night, this letter should at least let you know to look out for Ace. I don't know him very well yet, I haven't earned his trust, but I think he's a very good dog who could use kindness, comfort, and a flea bath.

You'te my favorite, Alfie. I'll do my best so you never need to read this. You're my "Back Up" if things go badly.

\- Bruce.

**Author's Note:**

> ...i was bored & i wanted to figure out how to write Batman's "voice" instead of thinking in it.
> 
> I'm going to "justify" my remembering to use Americanisms only after repeatedly forgetting them elsewhere via pulling the "Bruce, an American, was raised by Alfred, a Brit, who Used To Do Shakespeare &, thus, Would Have Had Opinions on Bruce's literary education". //but really I'm just too wary of proofreading myself lest i "NOPE" & delete it all instead of posting it, as written


End file.
